


In A Dream

by salamancialilypad



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, alcohol use by minors, drug use by minors, its consensual but not safe or healthy or talked about beforehand, its one line. but i am being safe., tagging dubcon just to be safe but its really not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salamancialilypad/pseuds/salamancialilypad
Summary: Set during the Dream Thieves. Kavinsky is teaching Ronan how he steals objects from dreams. Ronan is pissed.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	In A Dream

They’ve been dreaming. They’ve been at it all day, and Ronan is no closer to understanding. He thought he had got it, but instead he hit a wall. And Kavinsky was no less of a dick. Ronan was drunk, and Kavinsky was high, but it didn’t stop them from being pissed at each other. 

“You’re supposed to fucking teach me,” Ronan was shouting for the thousandth time. “You’re just giving me pills, man, that isn’t fucking teaching!”

“Shut up.” Kavinsky seemed unconvinced, doing a line off the dashboard of the white mitsubishi. 

Here is the thing about Ronan Lynch: he was a forest fire.

Here is the thing about Joseph Kavinsky: he was always looking for a spark. 

“You shut up,” Ronan seethed, rearing back to throw a punch, and connected with Kavinsky’s face. 

“Haha.” Kavinsky laughed like a lawnmower, a jagged line of ha-ha, like the emotion of the laugh was separated from the action. “Awesome.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ronan repeated. “Give me another.”

Kavinsky produced another pill, popping one into his mouth, letting it dissolve on his tongue as he pushed another into Ronan’s mouth. Together they took a drink, a long drink. Kavinsky bought shitty beer. Ronan didn’t buy much better. 

Drink.

Sleep. 

Dream.

Ronan wasn’t alone. He wasn’t used to being alone at this point. He wasn’t used to Kavinsky being in his dreams. 

“I can’t get away from you,” he said in the dream language. 

“Fuck you.” Kavinsky spoke in Latin. He disappeared like smoke, racing through the trees, and Ronan raced after him. He didn’t want to take something. He wanted to beat the shit out of Kavinsky. 

Here is the thing about Joseph Kavinsky: he was an eel, slippery and hard to get a hold of.

Here is the thing about Ronan Lynch: he was a bloodhound.

When Ronan caught up to him, he was holding something in his hands, turning it over and over. Ronan didn’t get a chance to see what it was before his fist was connecting with Kavinsky’s face again. 

It felt more real in the dream, as fucked up as that was. In the waking world, in real life, the punch was sticky, plastic, fake. In the dream it was crisp, sharp, satisfying. Kavinsky reeled backwards, dropping whatever he was holding in his hands. 

“What the fuck, man?” English this time. Ronan didn’t answer, just reared back to throw another punch, and Kavinsky intercepted it this time, catching him off guard and sending them both tumbling, fists and elbows and knees flying. They scuffled in the dirt of the forest for a long moment, no one else around to interrupt them. Ronan wilfully ignored the trees rustling overhead. Kavinsky, underneath Ronan, brought up his knee square between Ronan’s legs, but without any malice, and Ronan found himself perched on top of it, still beating the shit out of Kavinsky. It took him too long to realize Kavinsky grinding his knee on his dick. 

He didn’t say anything about it, just sneered in a wicked way at Kavinsky’s disaffected look, Kavinsky staring past him at the trees as his leg moved.

“You’re sick,” Ronan spat, but contrary to his words, he ground down on Kavinsky’s knee harder, a groan bubbling up in his throat. 

“You’re one to talk.” Kavinsky flipped him over, Ronan snarling as his back hit the ground. “You’re just as fucking nasty as I am and you know it.”

Ronan didn’t punch, but couldn’t just lay there, so he was his own force of nature, tearing at Kavinsky’s hands, pulling off shirts and shoes. Kavinsky popped the buttons on their jeans, actually focusing his eyes on Ronan as he did so. Ronan arched his back, looking away. Kavinsky slotted their cocks together and circled his hand around them both. At this, Ronan finally stilled, tipping his head back and closing his eyes as Kavinsky stroked them. It was like all his violent energy was finally going somewhere, Kavinsky pulling the tension out of his body like a magic trick. 

In one swift movement, Ronan grabbed Kavinsky’s shoulders and flipped them both, Ronan settling on top of him. Kavinsky lost his grip, being thrown bodily into a forest floor, but he was quick to pick it back up, taking both of them in hand yet again. He tried to spit into his palm to slick his way, but his mouth was too dry. He offered up his palm to Ronan, and Ronan spit indelicately into his hand, and then they both groaned as the sensation started up yet again. Ronan snapped his hips up into Kavinsky’s hand, rutting against him, a perfect, patented blend of pissed off and turned on. Kavinsky watched him with dull eyes. Ronan couldn’t tell if he was sober or not. He didn’t care much either way. 

Kavinsky stuttered, tightening his grip, tensing up as he finally came, splattering between the two of them. Ronan got loose, pushing forward into his vice like grip once more before coming with a long string of bitten off curses. His head felt fuzzy. 

Kavinsky underneath him disappeared. Awake. 

Ronan woke, too. 

In the waking world, Kavinsky was holding something. In the waking world, Ronan was still flecked with come and blood. 

“Asshole,” Ronan spat at him, stripping off his muscle tank and throwing it into the backseat. Kavinsky jumped him. 

This didn’t feel fake in the real world, Kavinsky settling on top of his lap like they had dreamed. Ronan was caught halfway between fight and fuck. Kavinsky ground down on Ronan’s lap, surprisingly docile. Ronan chose fuck. He wound a fist into Kavinsky’s hair and pulled his head back, tackling his neck with kisses and teeth, leaving a dark mark above his collarbone. Kavinsky looked ruined: dark circles under his eyes clear even with how much they’d been sleeping, too thin, too bony. Ronan wondered if he could break his arm. He didn’t break his arm. He pushed Kavinsky down at his feet, activating the mechanic in the chair to get it to slide all the way back, giving him a little bit of space. Ronan popped the button on his pants. 

Kavinsky licked his lips, just a little. Ronan pushed the fabric out of the way, exposing his cock, Kavinsky watching with dark eyes. Ronan put his hands on the back of his head and didn’t need to put any pressure on them to get Kavinsky to go down. 

Here is the thing about Joseph Kavinsky: he always got what he wanted.

Here is the thing about Ronan Lynch: he didn’t care.

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i only write for dead fandoms now, but i hope someone out there will enjoy this. i certainly couldn't read the third book without getting it out of my system haha
> 
> links for my social media: sallilypad.carrd.co


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